Page 69 of Ghosted
He sits on my bed, hands clasped in an attempt to tame his agitated energy. Looking at him right now is like looking at a fluorescent light on the fritz—buzzy and hard to focus on. “I’ve been going to check on my family once or twice a day, and I decided to pop in on my dad this morning. He wasn’thome, so I followed him to the police station. Did I mention I can do that now? Track my family down? I can see them the same as you in the ether, but they’re dimmer, harder to find. Anyway, that’s beside the point.” He gives his head a hard shake, as if trying to force himself to focus.
Dean continues, “I followed him to the police station and got the gist of why he was there. I guess my coworkers went out for drinks last night. The bar was pretty packed since it was Halloween. Vanessa saw Richard put something in some random girl’s drink when she wasn’t looking. She told my dad about it because she felt too nervous to approach Richard on her own.
My dad convinced Vanessa to call the police rather than confront him themselves. Long story short, the police got there just in time, because Richard saw my dad and Vanessa talking to the poor girl and was trying to bail. Amari caught wind of what was going on and stopped him from leaving. The cops apprehended him and had enough cause to search his person. Sure enough, he had GHB powder in his wallet.”
“Oh shit,” I breathe, dread punching a fist through my gut.
“Yeah.” He runs a stressed hand through his hair.
“So, what now?” I ask.
“I don’t know. It sounds like Richard posted bail this morning. He doesn’t have any priors, so they’re treating him with kid gloves. His dad used to be a detective there, so I’m sure that’s helping smooth the way for him,” Dean says angrily.
I bite my lip and then ask, “Why do you think he’s the one who killed you? I get that it was the same drug, but it’s a popular one for sexual assault.”
Dean nods and says, “It is. And I hate to think how many women he’s likely used it on to take advantage of them. Healways wanted to go out to the bars, and he was usually the one to go home with a random woman. God, I should have paid more attention,” Dean scrubs a hand over his mouth, lips turned down into a disgusted frown.
I reach out and place a hand on his knee. “You were not responsible for his actions. You didn’t know.”
He looks away and nods. “I know. I just feel so fucking awful for those women.”
“Did you and he have a falling out?” I ask, trying to gently steer him back towards his own murder and away from any misplaced guilt.
“No, not really. I mean, I never would have considered us friends. He was too frat boy for my tastes. He hated that the law firm was owned by my dad. He always made snide little comments about me being a ‘daddy’s boy’ and he’d drop little nepotism jabs here and there. But I brushed them off because I figured he was insecure, and I knew I was good at my job. My dad made it a point not to promote me unless I worked my ass off like everyone else.”
“So wait, you think he killed you because of work?” I ask, my voice pitching up to screeching levels.
“I think so. I mean, my dad was making all these overt comments the night I was killed about me being promoted to partner because I found that damning evidence about the factory. Richard probably got so jealous that he killed me for it. And the worst part is that he got the promotion when I died, so his stupid plan worked,” Dean says, anger and despair covering him like a thunderstorm blocking out the sun.
“Do you think they’ll be able to pin him for it?” I ask, rubbing soothing circles with my thumb over his knee.
Dean shrugs a shoulder, but he’s so tense it looks mechanical. “I don’t know. My dad brought the lab results from my coffee to the police station. But they can’t prove it was Richard since no one saw him do it, he’s not in charge of restocking the snacks and drinks at the office, and it’s been months. Not to mention they never found the drug in my system.”
“You know, I need to talk to Jack. Because your death wasn’t from a natural cause, they should have done drug testing when they autopsied you. I can’t imagine that you were incapacitated in any other way since we literally found it in your coffee. Every article I read said that GHB testing is standard practice, so it definitely should have been there,” I say, thinking about the various articles I read while researching everything I could about Dean’s death that probably have me on some sort of list now.
Dean’s brow furrows. “Fuck. Do you think Richard’s dad could have had some connections to the coroner?”
“Maybe. If his dad was a police officer, I’m sure they would run into each other a lot,” I say, rubbing the goosebumps from my arms. I can't believe how deep this goes.
“If they don’t find something that sticks, he’ll be able to get away with just a slap on the wrist. He might have to go to jail for a while for the drugs, but unless other people come forward, it would be hard to prove much of anything.” Dean is visibly shaking with rage.
“Okay. Let’s try to focus on what we can do and what we know. Do you think he’s the one who actually killed you?” I ask.
“You mean is he the one who set up aDexter-levelkill room in my garage?” he asks. When I nod, he says, “I don’t know.” He pauses to think, dark brows furrowing. “I mean, he wouldhave had to race me to get to my house. I saw that he was still at work, maybe ten minutes before I left.”
A thought strikes me. “Didn’t you say he went out to drinks with your coworkers that day? Something about a Leprechaun shot?”
“Lucky Charms shooter,” Dean corrects absently, “And yeah. Unless he bailed out. We should call my dad and see if he remembers. He doesn’t always go out with us, but he was in the mood to celebrate that night.”
I get dressed in an old t-shirt and leggings, then give Jack a call.
“Hey, Rae. How’d you know?” Jack asks, his voice gravelly from his long night.
“Dean,” I say simply.
“Ah. So, listen, I just left the police station. I’m guessing Dean told you why I was here?” I confirm, so he continues, “I don’t want to talk about this on the phone. Do you and Dean want to come over tonight? We can have a family dinner, and it’ll give us a chance to chat.”
My heart warms at the term “family dinner.” I smile a little and say, “I’d love to. Text me the address and time.”
